


Bastogne

by goldendiie



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Christmas fic, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldendiie/pseuds/goldendiie
Summary: Repost of something I wrote two years ago and deleted. Summary: In the midst of the siege on Bastogne, celebrating Christmas is unlikely; yet, somehow peace is found in even the hardest of times. (Alternatively: Sarge takes part in the resounding Christmas spirit during the height of the Battle of the Bulge).
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Bastogne

**Author's Note:**

> Okay look, I know it's June. But I deleted this fic a while back, and I've regretted it ever since. In my opinion, this is probably the greatest thing I have ever written. Objectively. I originally deleted it because I planned on making it into a greater series about World War II and potentially the Eisenhower era, as a sort of research and writing project. I'm currently majoring in history, so it seemed fun! Unfortunately, I never had the time for it, alongside working on Third Blink and taking time for myself. TLDR, I deleted it for nothing and now I'm posting it again because I love it. Merry Christmas, in June!

Sarge thought he knew cold as he plunged into the icy waters off the coast of Normandy. He thought he knew cold when the first frost had greeted them in Paris. No, those were nothing compared to the cold in Bastogne. They were practically stranded, without the help of snow tires or chains or any other necessary thing. _The war will be over by Christmas._ Bah. Maybe next Christmas, or the Christmas after that.

Getting to Berlin by even the New Year would be impossible, what with the way things were going. Everyone knew about what happened at Malmedy, and everyone knew that the Germans were making steady progress towards Antwerp, despite their efforts to stop it. Bastogne was, in a way, the only thing preventing the Germans from going any further.

That’s all jargon, though. The most anyone cared about, despite the looming threat of losing the city to the Germans, was whether or not they would be able to celebrate the holiday without the constant barrage of gunfire. This too was impossible, unless the Krauts decided to observe a ceasefire, which in itself was unlikely. The day had already drawn to a close; the sun had fallen beneath the horizon, leaving only the black-blue sky and dropping temperatures in its place.

All of this certainly isn’t to say that morale was low; most people were cheerful, despite the unbearable cold and death swinging over their heads like a guillotine. The subject of their demise had become quite the joke among his fellow troops; everywhere he went, it seemed there were whispers of that fatalistic humor, almost always followed by pessimistic laughter. Sarge hardly shared in their spirit. Their optimism in such a time was certainly admirable, though he found it incredibly difficult to take part in it himself. Death was no laughing matter, not when it had drawn near in so little time.

“Ah, lighten up,” Lieutenant Banes said, swatting Sarge with one of his tires. “It’s Christmas, and we’re practically living in a postcard.”

“ _Dying,”_ Sarge corrected. “Dying in a postcard.”

Banes laughed, deep and hearty. It seemed nothing could break this man’s spirit. “Ah!” He exclaimed, grinning jovially. “You agree it’s a postcard!”

Sarge shrugged but chose not to respond. A couple of the remaining medics rushed past them, one with a wounded jeep in tow. He watched as the man writhed, crying out every time they hit a bump in the cobbled road. They disappeared into the night, and Sarge returned his attention to Banes. “Have you heard anything new?” He asked. 

“Not a damn thing,” Banes replied, almost spitefully. “They don’t tell us jack shit about what’s going on out there.” 

There’s the far-off clamor of gunfire and the _crack-boom_ of heavy artillery. As the Germans had promised, the shelling had, indeed, gotten worse. Hardly two days earlier, the belligerents had demanded their surrender, only for the good general to laugh in their face. They were to keep fighting, and they were _not_ to lose the city. 

Though, it seemed like they were within inches of loss. Morale was high, yes, though the city itself was in various states of disrepair. Buildings, sagging and tired, were blown partially to bits in the crossfire. Sarge thinks, with some measure of despair, that it isn’t the town they’re trying to defend-- only the ever-important crossroads that it housed. 

“You two better get inside.” 

The two turned around, only to find a meek-looking private. “I--I mean, it’s cold out, and you wouldn’t want to freeze to death on Christmas Eve, sirs--” The private saluted hastily, and anxiously brandished two postcards, before scuttling off.

“Insubordinate little--” Sarge began, before he was cut off.

“You’re too harsh for your own good, _Sergeant-Major,”_ Banes said, frowning. “Give the kid a break, it’s Christmas. Hey, speaking of Christmas…”

Sarge looked at his own postcard, only to find that it was a Christmas card. In bold, black letters, embellished with images of angels and stars, it read:

“ _Merry Christmas, Soldier! And our deepest sympathy, It’s tough being away from home at this time of year…. Especially when you’re surrounded and outnumbered ten to one--”_

“ _Man, haven’t you thought about it? What if you don’t come back?_ ” Banes read aloud. He grinned, and sarcastically said, “They’re really trying to inspire us to fight on here, aren’t they?”

Sarge’s eyes skimmed over the rest. Something about family, something about prayer. Then, finally, something about “..hot chow and safety… only three-hundred yards away?” He finished his thought verbally, if only to watch Banes’ face light up.

“Warm food,” he said, smiling. “That’s an offer that I’ll have to take up!” 

And so, they found themselves deeper in the city, among several dozen men just like them. They were all practically identical, all boxy, painted olive-drab. From the sea of green, a prayer began to ring out. The voices--all tired, all gruff--spoke in unison a prayer that Sarge was unfamiliar with. 

_“...Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call upon Thee that armed with Thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies, and establish Thy justice among men and nations.”_

A single voice rose above the others: “Amen.”

Sarge hardly considered himself a very religious man, but something about the atmosphere convinced him to rejoin in the echoing _Amen._

From then on, it was a clatter metal as oil cans were passed around, met with the chatter of a million voices. 

“You know, I think I heard that someone over in Patton’s army found some ham tied to a tree,” Banes said, in between drinks of his oil. “What do you think they did with that?”

“Ate it?” Sarge replied. “What else would they do with it? Throw it away?”

“I dunno. Maybe they’d keep it as a spoil.”

In the opposite corner of the room, a chorus rose above the noise. It was tired and worn and sounded like the city of Bastogne itself was singing along with them. The decimated buildings, the cracked streets, with the light of the moon shining on all of its broken pieces. _Hark the herald angels sing…._

“Glory to the newborn king!” The chorus rose above all else as others joined in. Soldiers who hadn’t smiled in weeks finally began to brighten up as they sang along: “Peace on earth and mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled…”

“Joyful all ye nations rise! Join the triumph of the skies!” Banes had joined in the singing, now, with a wide, giddy grin on his face. He nudged Sarge, encouraging him to join in as well. “With th’angelic host proclaim: Christ is born in Bethlehem,”

Finally, Sarge caved. With a smile on his face, his voice mingled with those of dozens of other men: “Hark! The herald angels sing!”

“Glory to the newborn king!”

_The Battle of the Bulge (lasting from 16 December 1944 to 25 January 1945) is one of the largest factors that lead to the Allied victory of the Second World War. Hitler and his officers aimed to create a divide in the front lines in Belgium and push through to the port of Antwerp, after which they would be able to surround the four Allied armies and force their hand in a peace treaty. Hitler believed that upon the accomplishment of this mission-- designated as “Operation Watch on the Rhine,”--he would be able to fully concentrate his forces on the Soviet army in the East. The Siege of Bastogne (20 December-27 December 1944) is one of the most pivotal points in this battle. German forces surrounded the city of Bastogne, which was held by the American 101st Airborne Division (among others). For seven days, American forces would survive the constant barrage of German artillery, despite their lack of food, weather-appropriate clothing, and commanding officers. Despite the odds being against them, the 101st Airborne Division would overpower the Germans with the help of General Patton’s Third Army. Following their relief, the 101st Airborne Division was nicknamed “The Battered Bastards of Bastogne,” due to their incredible resilience._


End file.
